quotidian
by Watanabe Maya
Summary: There are many ways by which Hanamaki Takahiro expects to enjoy his Friday night. Getting trapped in the company elevator with his regional branch's executive manager was not one of them. \\ MatsuHana. Cheap thrills and an attempt at humor. TrappedInAnElevator!AU


it had always been my dream to write a matsuhana fic and wow who knew this would be my ticket to success? lololol anw this is just a stupid little thing but it's less stupid now thanks to my wonderful beta. I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY THIS FIC FEATURING THE MEME DREAM TEAM AS BETA'D BY A LEAN MEAN MEME MACHINE HAHAHAH (ty E u da best)

 **Disclaimer** : I don't own Haikyuu! :)

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Despite the fast-paced nature of the corporate industry, there's something oddly mundane about the daily grind of their white-collar world. Hanamaki has adjusted to it well enough.

He'd woken up at seven in the morning, showered for a quick ten minutes, eaten breakfast for a good twenty, taken the half-hour train ride en route to the office, and clocked in the hours until his shift ended at seven. Office hours are mandated by law to end at five, but Hanamaki's company has the whole manipulate-your-minions-skilfully-with-benefits game down to a science: workers are incentivized to have an extra two-percent bonus to their salary for every additional hour they serve.

Now Hanamaki Takahiro is a single bachelor living in a one-bedroom apartment in the middle of Tokyo. What's he supposed to do? Say no? Of course not – his high school economics teacher taught him better than that. So Hanamaki easily takes the bait and signs up for an extra two. After all, rent isn't gonna pay itself. It isn't a bad deal, and he doesn't have much going on to keep him busy in the limbo of those pre-dinner post-work hours anyway. And, bleak lovelife notwithstanding, he could always use the extra pay.

"Could you hand these reports back to sales before you go, Hanamaki-san?" his coworker, Fukuda, asks him while dumping a stack of reports unceremoniously onto his desk. She smiles at him just then, already familiar with the man's habits, to which Hanamaki just nods, noting idly that the clock reads seven-oh-three on his desktop monitor and the time for his shift has finally (officially) come to an end.

Usually, he'd ride the train back home at this hour just in time for the supermarket super-sale to buy ingredients for dinner. Today, however, is a Friday – and Fridays mean that he'd either call up Oikawa and invite him to get shitfaced together as they head to their usual haunt for dinner and drinks, or pick up take-out and binge on his guilty pleasure of zombie apocalypse movies alone at his apartment til sunrise. It's a simple routine, and Hanamaki is a simple guy. He likes schedules. They're predictable. Easy.

Hanamaki fishes his phone out of the inner pocket and finds that Oikawa has replied to his latest text with a _sry makki its date nyt tonite bc iwa-chan wont be in japan for our anniv :(_. Well then. Looks like it'll be dinner for Takahiro with pixelated hordes of the undead on _Versus_ tonight.

Hanamaki shoves his phone into the pocket of his trousers as he holds back a sigh. He takes the papers and skims over the contents, binding them with a clip before throwing his messenger bag over his shoulder. "No problem. Fifth floor right?"

"Yup," Fukuda chirps and offers a small wave as he exits their shared cubicle. "Thanks for your hard work."

"Likewise," he grins and raises his free hand to return the gesture. "See you on Monday then, Mayu-chan," he says.

He hears Fukuda give him a hollered back _See you!_ as he makes it down the hall. He enters the elevator and finds himself in the solace of some looped smooth jazz melody. Objectively speaking, it's a pleasant song - not too grating on the ears or anything - but Hanamaki's heard it far too many times this year to count that he's grown immensely sick of it. He presses on the five.

A small ping rings through the shaft.

It stops instead on the twentieth; the elevator doors open briefly as another man steps inside. A grand total of sixty seconds later, the eighty-inch metal box they're currently standing in slows down and screeches to a halt. The lights flicker, dim, and then quickly fizzle out. From the turn of events, Hanamaki brilliantly deducts that the power is down and surmises that, in the grand scheme of things, the universe truly has conspired to work against him in this very moment.

The music stops at least. _Thank god for that_ , Hanamaki thinks.

The darkness abates with a small flare of light, and Hanamaki takes this opportunity to eye the stranger for a good while. The man is clad in a freshly pressed suit and has wavy locks that are cropped short right above his nape. By the looks of things, he's taller than him too. _The nerve._

Hanamaki urges himself to speak, "Uhm…"

There's a rough _What?_ followed by a raised arm as the man offers a stick in his direction. "Did you want one?" he asks.

"No," Hanamaki shakes his head, "it's just...I don't think you should do that."

"Huh?" the man grunts, cocking a thick eyebrow in response as he closes the lid of his lighter. "Why not? I don't see any signs telling me I can't smoke here. It's a free country."

He presses the cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply. His expression is nonchalant, almost at ease, but to the young pink-haired salaryman, it looks like a well-practiced act done out of sheer spite more than anything else.

Hanamaki initially decides to just let it go, to resign himself to a few minutes of fervent prayer to the heavens to not straight-jab-uppercut this stranger unconscious until the power comes back – hopefully ASAP, given how deeply-rooted his faith in the deities is – so he can get out of this hellhole and once again face the fresh air.

But then freshly-pressed-suit-clad condescending asshole lets out a breath, a thick and smoky nicotine-rich exhale, and this is where Hanamaki finally decides to take a stand.

" _Well,"_ he begins, "if you must know…this place has pretty poor ventilation, don't you think? It's a compact rectangular prism that houses only the both of us, and given that the power is gone means that the exhaust fans aren't on at the moment. So, if anything, the smoke you're letting out won't really have a place to go except back into our lungs. Now I don't know about you, _Sir_ , but I still have a pretty decent will to live so I'd rather not have your secondary smoke all up in my face."

"Oh," the man responds and almost immediately puts out the light. He turns to face Hanamaki and actually makes an effort to look apologetic. "You're right. I didn't consider that, sorry."

Something gnaws at Hanamaki from the inside – perhaps he was too harsh. Great. Now he feels guilty for having gone off with his spiel on basic manners, courtesy, and the primacy of respiratory health just then.

"No, it's fine," Hanamaki raises a hand in conciliatory gesture. "Sorry too. I just, you know…wanted to breathe."

"Understandable."

They linger in the shadows, ensconced, for a little while longer. In the silence, the darkness feels all the more oppressive.

Then, the man starts to sing. His voice is gruff, but pleasant and comforting. Hanamaki can tell he's born with an innate skill for musicality or something of that sort. The problem here is that his soft lilting of a melody is that of the same old elevator song to which Hanamaki's feelings have probably surpassed hate and levelled up to loathing at this point.

He groans.

"Ugh, stop. I'm sick of that song."

"And I'm sick of you," the voice answers, mocking. "Now we're even."

"Touché."

"I'd like to hear you try better than me, though," the man proffers.

"Deal."

Hanamaki hums to clear the tension. Two bars in, and a hand on his shoulder forces him to stop.

"Your singing is terrible," the man comments.

"Excuse you," he bites back. "You're terrible."

"'True. I'm the one who almost suffocated the both of us in this sad, enclosed space after all."

"At least now you're self-aware."

"Hey, how long do you think this power outage will last?" the other man wonders aloud, instantly shifting gears by diverting the topic of their conversation.

"Who knows," Hanamaki replies, now slightly grateful for the company. At this point, he could land himself in a panic attack if they stayed quiet for even another minute or two. "Say...since it seems like we'll be here for a while, let's get to know each other better. Whatcha think? I'm Hanamaki Takahiro and I work in logistics on the twenty-fourth – you?"

"Matsukawa Issei. Executive manager for the Tōhoku branch."

Hanamaki recoils at his response. "Shit, you're a manager huh? Pardon my French, I should've spoken to you more formall–"

"Please don't."

"Hm?"

Hanamaki hears a soft rustle of fabric and imagines the man — Matsukawa, he corrects himself — to be shaking his head in adamant refusal. "I hate those those kinds of pretentious things," he remarks, voice grim, "I think your way of talking is fine."

"But it's so rude...?"

"I like the familiarity. _Keigo_ makes me feel old."

"So...what, if I'm talking to you like this, you can pretend we're kids on a rendezvous after lights out at summer camp or something?" Hanamaki pitches, the darkness spurring his mind to attempt at least a miniscule iota of creativity.

"Or something. This whole situation has me feeling like we're teens in a sleepover playing seven minutes in heaven to be honest."

Hanamaki clicks his tongue. "Are you saying we'll get out in seven minutes? Pretty optimistic of you to say that given that this building is more than thirty years old, don't you think?"

"What? No. _It's a game_."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," the other explains, "you stay locked up in a dark place with another person – like a closet, for example – and you can do whatever you want with each other for seven minutes."

"Define 'whatever you want.'"

"Literally anything?" After a beat, Matsukawa supplies, "Hopefully not murder, though."

"Then what do you want me to do? Am I expected to have hot passionate sex with you right here, right now? Because I'm sorry to have failed your expectations but I refuse to assume the role of a horny rabid seventeen year old who can't keep his buddy in his pants because his hormones were all over the place–"

"Woah, woah. Easy there...I don't think seventeen year olds go so far as to have one night stands all unattached like that. If anything, it usually just leads to kissing."

Hanamaki quirks an eyebrow with piqued curiosity. He listens with vague interest as his eyes adjust to the darkness.

"...So."

"So?"

"So you're telling me teens are just making out with each other for _seven_ _minutes_ _straight_?"

"Not straight, exactly."

"Hmmm?"

"I mean you can take breaks. Everyone goes at it at their own pace," Matsukawa shrugs. "Like I said, they do what they want."

For a brief moment, Hanamaki sits – or rather, stands – in contemplative silence.

"That seems...fun," he says, tentatively.

Matsukawa nudges closer, and Hanamaki feels the warmth of him press firmly against his side. The taller man leans in closer and mumbles, softly, a whispered offer in his ear.

"Wanna try it?" he asks.

Electricity buzzes through his soul, and Hanamaki flushes as he finds himself thinking of throwing all self-preservation instincts out the proverbial window. He holds in a breath. This space is far too narrow for the quick beating of his heart.

"W-W-Wait– no," Hanamaki stammers, "oh my god, I wasn't–...I was kidding—"

"But you want a distraction, right?"

Matsukawa casts the die. There's the soft quirk of his lips that comes off as nothing else but a silent invitation and Hanamaki does little else but hold back a sigh and just roll with the punches.

Somewhere, somehow, however, he decides to draw the line. Setting parameters was important after all, Hanamaki reminds himself as he clears his throat to speak. He licks his lips right then, suddenly self-conscious of how chapped they feel against his tongue. Note to self: apply lip balm before riding vehicles with hot strangers for future reference.

"We're only doing this to kill time," he reasons.

"Yep."

"We're not gonna go that far."

"Yep, yep."

"Not all the way."

"Mmhm…"

"I mean...just a little bit won't hurt," Hanamaki rationalizes. The other nods, placating.

"Yep, just a little bit is fine."

"This won't mean anything more," he says.

"Yes," the taller man agrees, "nothing at all."

Hanamaki gulps, swallows down the lump of anxiety at the back of his throat.

"This is just a secret between us, okay?"

"I won't tell a soul," Matsukawa swears to him.

"What happens in the elevator—"

"...stays in the elevator, yes."

"Good," Hanamaki remarks with finality.

"Okay."

"...okay."

"Mhm…"

"..."

"..."

"So are you gonna kiss me yet or not?"

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reviews would be lovely, thank you in advance hehe :)


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